


Beautiful

by ysse_writes



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysse_writes/pseuds/ysse_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written  for Merry's "Don't  Ask Me Why" Challenge (aka The Chris Challenge.)</p>
<p>Now you're in trouble, maybe she's an intellectual<br/>What if she figures out you're not very smart<br/>Or maybe she's the quiet type who's into heavy metal<br/>Boy, you've got to get it settled cause she's breaking your heart.<br/>- Billy Joel, "Modern Woman"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Don't own them, don't know them, all made up.
> 
> Warnings and Author's Notes: Rated PG13 for adult themes and language. Sap warnings at maximum.
> 
> Unbetaed! (Didn't have time. Not that I think any amount of help could have saved this fic anyway.) Crazy! (Me. The fic. Both.) Long and rambling. (Me. The fic. Both.) RPS! Here be romantic relationships of the male-male persuasion. Don't like, don't read, don't say you weren't warned.
> 
> Comments always welcome!

**  
_Now you're in trouble, maybe she's an intellectual_ ** **  
_What if she figures out you're not very smart_ ** **  
_Or maybe she's the quiet type who's into heavy metal_ ** ****  
_Boy, you've got to get it settled cause she's breaking your heart._  


****  
_\- Billy Joel, "Modern Woman"_   


**I.**

It happens like the  song. Or rather, like a whole bunch of songs. One moment there was nothing,  it was an ordinary day, and the next, poof, there's something there, a whole  new light, like you'd never seen him before, all at once, and all that shit. 

And shit is the exact  perfect word for the situation.

You're taking a break,  sitting on a couch, panting, because fuck if you aren't getting to be too  old for this. Didn't the last tour just end? What the hell are y'all doing  back in rehearsal getting ready for another concert? But strike while the  iron is hot, or so management says, and there's no rest for the weary. Or  maybe you've all just being working so long none of you know how to stop.  Still, you're almost glad the next tour is going to be the last one for a  while. It's a sign of the times that while you're exhausted and looking forward  to the planned hiatus as some much-needed downtime, the rest of them are bursting  with excitement, full of plans. That while you're struggling to catch your  breath they're still all bouncy and goofing around, unable to keep still. 

A high-pitched giggle  makes you look up, and you get sucker-punched to the gut.

Whoa, you think.

Joey.

Joey is fucking beautiful.

Which is somewhat, no,  _really_ weird. Because not only is Joey all sweaty and yucky, hair  plastered to his head, he's making the most horrendous snorting sounds, while  Justin clutches at his stomach, laughing helplessly.

For some reason, though,  the sight makes your mouth go dry and your stomach go flip-flop. Multi-flops,  even.

You feel weird. Strangely  lightheaded. The dust motes around you (you need to talk to Johnny about that,  hiring another cleaning service may be in order) are strangely charged, all  golden and dancing and...

Fuck.

You close your eyes,  slap yourself, _hard_ , and then look again.

_Fuck_.

Joey now has Justin  in a headlock, holding him almost upside-down. Justin unable to find a handhold  except Joey's pants, which are now in the process of riding halfway down his  hips, showing the elastic of less-than-pristine underwear and...

And Joey is still beautiful. 

And now there's heat.  Sudden, intense, totally unexpected.

_Totally_.

On the floor in front  of you, JC is looking at you strangely, one eyebrow lifted in question. Beside  him, Lance snickers, poking him with one finger while waggling his eyebrows.  You glare at Lance suspiciously, but he's now tying his shoes, looking all  pre-occupied and innocent. You don't believe it one bit. You wonder which  insane PR person had the bright idea of trying to sell Lance as the naïve  country boy, as sweet and simple and innocent because goddamn it, the boy  is anything but. As if he'd heard your thoughts he glances up and grins at  you. You narrow your eyes at him, and his grin only widens.

Fucker.

Lance, you know, knows  things. In fact, Lance knows too much. You're convinced that someday, men  in black suits will appear on the *NSYNC compound and just drag Lance away.  They'd find his body days later, in a ditch somewhere, and 'he knew too much'  would be his epitaph, big block letters in 20 feet of marble.

Which would be needed  very _very_ soon if Lance didn't stop smirking at you like that.

You stand up and walk  to Joey. Justin has gained the upper hand, somewhat, and is now draped over  Joey's back, trying to tickle him.

"Chris," Joey  laughs, looking to you when you're near enough. "Man, help me out here.  The kid's like a leech." But you notice he's not trying that hard to  shake the 'kid' off.

For a moment you're  tempted. To join in, to have your hands on his body, like Justin has. The  perfect excuse, given to you free of charge. He would be laughing and relaxed  and soft and pliable. You could have him writhing and helpless under you in  less than twenty seconds. He wouldn't notice if you hugged too hard, if your  hands strayed 'accidentally.' But no, that is wrong, _wrong,_ and you,  Chris Kirkpatrick, pirate of the open seas, are made of sterner stuff. Instead  you glare at him and poke him in the chest. "I will _not_ be a  cliché, yo," you announce, very firmly.

Lance laughs. Joey just  looks confused. "What?"

"You heard me,"  you say, and walk out. You go straight to the bathroom and run your head under  the faucet, using very cold water.

It's better to head  these things off at the pass.

 

Unfortunately, Joey  is still beautiful the next day. And the next. And right into the next week.  You try to stay calm. Reasonable. Logical.

You can do that, you  went to college and everything!

It's not that you hadn't  known Joey was attractive. A million screaming teens could not be wrong, no  matter how young or sheltered. There, too, were the dozens, maybe even hundreds  of girls through the years, girls that almost magically appeared and disappeared,  ranging from students to supermodels. In Europe Joey had looked so gorgeous  and Italian you'd joked that he could always make a fortune as a gigolo if  the group didn't pan out.

So, no, the problem  isn't that Joey is beautiful. Not even you (and you've tried) could be so  illogical as to blame Joey for being beautiful. That would have been being  like blaming the sun for shining, or birds for singing, or something equally  inane. Not to mention corny.

And it's not that you  can't appreciate beauty where you find it. You're well aware that you share  the stage and your life with four of the most, if not _the_ most, beautiful  people on earth. You're still wondering how that happened. When you put this  group together, it had been all about the talent, the commitment, the sheer  faith that the music would shine through and blind people to your varying  levels of dorkiness. But you blinked and those dorks disappeared and there  were these creatures in their place, gorgeous and perfect and so damn hot  you actually thank God for the miracle of allowing you to go through mobs  of fans with your hair and clothes and skin intact. Most nights, anyway. Most  of the time you're inured to them, but there are still times they take you  by surprise. You are, after all, still a red-blooded American, if not quite  heterosexual, male. It's not like you haven't thought about it. You've looked,  you've considered, you've been ambushed in the shower by these visions.

You've noticed, for  example, that JC is quite possibly the most adorable creature on earth. It's  a blessing that JC is so sweet and oblivious of his effect on people or no  heart would be safe in the entire Free World. And you've noticed that Lance  has moments of extreme hotness, especially when he would have a particular  look in his eyes and this sort of half-smile that was both tempting and terrifying.  He _looks_ innocent enough, looks pure and wholesome and chaste, and  for all you know, probably is, but deep down you just didn't buy any of it.  And Justin, Justin is sex on legs, potent and obvious and blatant and therefore  easily dismissible. Well, okay, not so easily, but still, doable.

But this... thing...  with Joey is entirely different. Each time you look Joey seems to be glowing,  radiating happiness and warmth and setting off all sorts of fuzzy and tingly  feelings in the pit of your stomach.

This can't be a good  thing.

For one thing, you're  not at all a fuzzy and tingly feelings sort of guy. You're more of a 'I wanna,  you wanna, too?' person.

And suddenly, inexplicably,  you wanna.

And with _Joey_.

You don't like this. 

_At all._

 

_  
_You successfully ignore  Joey for the next few days. Or rather, you successfully actively pretend not  to notice Joey. Any more than usual, that is.   In the Bahamas, you pretend you don't notice how physically close he and Lance  are when they talk, how easily they touch, how effortless and quiet and solid  their friendship is. You pretend you don't notice each time Joey would just  punch Lance -- not very hard -- on the arm, to distract the younger man from  his deep dark thoughts and make him smile. You pretend you don't watch them  resting from rehearsals, sitting on the floor with their backs to each other,  heads leaning on each other's shoulders, eyes closed, just breathing. __  


You've known about them,  about this, for years. It would be stupid to notice now.

You refuse to smile  when he teases JC about being skinny, about having a bony ass and freakishly  straight posture, all the while poking at his ribs, making JC giggle uncontrollably.  When Joey pelts JC with M&Ms and marshmallows, you pretend to be outraged  at the waste of food. You pretend not to watch when, during breakfast meetings,  Joey would peel a tangerine and then place them, section by section, into  JC's hand, because JC never remembered that breakfast meetings actually meant  breakfast, and he'd never remember to eat otherwise. When you find them on  the couch together, JC's head on Joey's lap, asleep, while Joey hums under  his breath and strokes JC's hair, you pretend not to have a lump in your throat.  You pretend you never have the urge to push JC off -- sweet loveable JC who  would give you the shirt off his back and the barrettes out of his hair --  so you can take his place.

When you trip during  practice, you pretend it's not because Joey and Justin just did this stomach-bump  move and you tripped over your own feet. You pretend not hear Justin's shocked  gasp, because you never trip unless it's on purpose, and not to care that  JC and Joey are by your side in a split-second, peering worriedly down at  you. Instead you glare at Lance, who is _laughing._

"I hate you,"  you growl at Lance. "I want to smack you."

"Dude, the fuck?"  Justin says, looking from you to Lance in bewilderment. "Did you hit  your head or something?"

Lance blows you a kiss  from behind JC.

Dead, so dead, you decide,  damn the group and the millions of heartbroken fans. This country can use  another national day of mourning. They'll thank you when they find his journal  and his plans for world domination are revealed. You'll be a hero. Like Luke  taking down Anakin before he can become Darth Vader.

"Dude," Joey  says, "are you okay?" He presses one hand against the back of your  head, lifting it slightly, feeling for bruises, brow wrinkled anxiously. You  pretend it's not his nearness that makes you groan.

When he lets go of you,  you slump bonelessly back, flat on the floor. "I'm a lame cow,"  you whine. "Shoot me now. Go ahead. Leave me here to die. Find someone  younger and less hairy."

Lance laughs again.

Fucker.

 

After Regis and Kelly,  during which you caught yourself surreptitiously ogling him in the dressing  room, you decide to be proactive and announce yourself cured. Free from this  madness, this strange malady. You declare that it was a simple aberration,  temporary insanity. To prove it you shower Joey with attention. The wrong  kind. You tease him for being whipped when Kelly calls and he goes immediately  to pick up Briahna. You jump on his back and make giddy-yap noises. You rub  his stomach and make a wish for prosperity and a good harvest.

Joey only laughs good-naturedly,  lifts his shirt up and tells you to do it properly.

You know you were lying  to yourself when you can't.

 

You spend the next week  sulking. Joey is not beautiful. He's not. He's, um, scraggly. And he has a  stupid laugh. And he wears stupid t-shirts. And he wears stupid old-smelling  cologne. And he smiles too big, you can see all his teeth. And he's too touchy-feely,  always hugging you, always trying to pick you up in those big strong manly  arms of his and...

Ahem.

He can't tell a joke  to save his life. And he's always singing show tunes. He makes huge sloppy  sandwiches whose middles were always falling out, and used every condiment  known to man, and always made extras for you and the other guys, always remembering  who liked what and made the best BLTs ever, and...

Stupid Joey.

 

  **II.**

You catch a break when  Bree catches a cold and Joey absents himself to take care of her. You feel  guilty for being grateful and instruct your assistant to send her gifts --  gourmet baby food and stuffed toys. Joey calls and tells you to stop it. She  throws up everything and the toys make the sniffling worse.

Now you feel guilty  _and_ rejected.

That changes when Bree  starts running a fever when she's supposedly getting better and Joey turns  from worried to freaking out. Every sniffle requires three phone calls --  to the doctor, to his mother and to you, and the tiniest sneeze and each minute  fluctuation in temperature is reported to you in excruciating detail. You,  after all, as it has been explained multiple times in countless phone calls,  have ample experience taking care of little girls and are considered an expert.  Even though he doesn't believe you when you tell him to just follow everything  the doctor says. You hang up on him when he insists he heard somewhere that  a baby trying to suck on her toes is a sure sign of malnutrition, and vow  to make Justin pay for buying Bree that digital thermometer instead of a regular  one.

 

After all these years  your first instinct to 3am phone calls is still panic, and this occasion is  no different. You should be inured to them by now, considering the hours your  friends keep and their propensity for calling at all hours, but you're not.  You always think it's bad news even though you know well enough bad news respects  time differences even less than your friends do.

Guilt, JC theorized  once, because although you left home for your family part of you still thinks  that's where you should be. At home, protecting them.

It's Joey, of course,  and you would hang up on him in principle if you weren't also hearing Bree  sobbing in the background. "She won't stop crying, man," he says.  "You think I should bring her to the emergency room?"

"Actually,"  you reply, dryly, "I think you should stop poking her every couple of  minutes and waking her up because you think she's breathing funny." You're  trying to sound reasonable and exasperated but really, you're finding his  obsessiveness kind of cute.

You're so lost not even  you could find this funny.

"I didn't!"  he protests. "I swear, man."

"Joey," you  say, "say it with me: babies need to sleep. And so do cranky over-aged  boyband members."

"Chris, please.  Please, man, you've gotta help me. She keeps _crying_."   The last sentence is said so plaintively you can't help but respond to it.  This is Joey, who's easygoing and pleasant and self-sufficient, who was always  the last to complain and hardly ever asks for anything. He's never had to,  some still-resisting part of you points out. People have always been eager  to cater to Joey, probably because he's so easily pleased and always appreciative.  But still, he hardly _asks_ , so it always of particular significance  when he does.

There's a strange echo  to Joey's voice. Beyond that and Bree's, cries you can hear a familiar sound.  A sort of humming.

"Joe?" you  ask, slowly. "Where are you?"

"In the car." 

"You're _driving_?" 

"Ummm," he  answers, sheepishly, "not exactly?"

"Joe, where are  you _exactly_?" You've already figured it out, though, walking  to the window and pushing aside the heavy curtain to peek out.

Yep. Headlights.

"In your driveway."

"Come on, man, please? You know you're her favorite."

You wonder why that  would be significant in this situation. Besides, it's not exactly true. She  gets the most excited over JC. Probably because of all the cooing he does.  "I've already buzzed you in," you say, watching as the electronic  gates open. "I'll meet you at the front door."

Busta barely raises  his head when you pass him, the useless piece of fur. If it were the pizza  man he'd be at the door already.

Children love you, everyone says you have a way with them. You're not sure  if it's a direct result of having so many younger siblings or a boon to offset  the responsibility. Either way, it's a gift. Bree doesn't magically stop crying  but quiets down as soon as you take her. "Poor baby," you croon,  and she burrows deeper into your shoulder, hiccuping softly.

Joey stumbles out of  the car, wrestling a huge Winnie the Pooh overnight bag and flops down on  the first step of your entryway. "Someday, you're going to have to tell  me how you do that," he says, sounding awed.

You grin down at him,  smugly. "Part and parcel of the Kirkpatrick magic, my friend," you  answer. You rock Bree gently and kiss her forehead. She feels warm, but not  really very hot. Probably just fussing and missing her mother. You hold out  your free arm for the baby bag. "Get in there and get some sleep, man,"  you tell him. "We'll be okay."

You're prepared to argue  this out. You can count the people Joey will let around his daughter on your  fingers. There are even less he'll trust with her well-being. Even then it's  usually a struggle. Joey has learned to be without his daughter from necessity,  but he never gives her up happily. It's why he never has the nanny come along  with Bree when it's his time with her.

"Prescription's  in the side pocket," he answers, handing over the bag without protest.  He staggers to his feet and engulfs both you and the baby in a hug, dropping  a kiss on her exposed cheek, before walking into your house and heading straight  for the guestroom. "Thanks, man," he calls back to you. "You  saved me. I owe you big for this."

You're the one who feels  blessed, though.

 

You wake up with a start,  instantly alert. It's been a while, but it turns out you've still got the  instinct. Your mom always said you were better at this than she ever was,  at keeping up with the feedings and the schedules. You figure you're just  well trained.

The crib you keep around  for when your nephews visit stands empty. Downstairs you hear someone messing  around in your kitchen. You groan, contemplating your ceiling. More sleep?  Or go save Joey from himself?

Bree starts fussing  again, and you sigh.

You blearily make your  way down to the kitchen. Joey looks relieved to see you. So does Busta, who's  hiding under the kitchen table, probably waiting for scraps. "We got  through breakfast and her bath okay, but then she started again."

You head straight for  the refrigerator, opening the freezer portion.

"Here," you  say, in lieu of a greeting, tossing him the rubber ring you'd stashed in there  before stumbling off to bed.

Joey catches it almost  instinctively, then almost drops it again, yelping. "Dude, the fu--"  He cuts himself off, remembering that little ears were present. "You  put her bangles in the freezer?"

You roll your eyes.  "It's one of her teething rings, you moron," you say.

He blinks. "Her  what?"

You sigh. "The  fussing? The fever? She's teething, dude. Her gums hurt and the cold helps  numb them."

"But... Isn't she  too young for teeth?"

You resolve to get him  a couple of those What To Expect books. The guy's obviously clueless. "Not  really. Didn't Kel tell you? There were a couple of rings in the baby bag.  And extra nipples for her bottle. That usually means she's managed to shred  a couple already."

He looks at the rubber  ring and then hands it to Bree, who grabs at it and stuffs it into her mouth.  She reminds you of her father so much at that moment you can't help but grin. 

Joey looks stricken.  "I thought they were... Dude, she kept trying to put that in her mouth  last night and I kept taking it away from her. I didn't want her to..."  He looks horrified. "She's going to grow up all traumatized and feeling  deprived and shit and it'll be my fault!"

You have to laugh. "Joe,  relax. I doubt this is going to be one of the defining traumas of her life.  That'll probably come when you start beating up the boys she dates."

He glares at you, distracted.  "My baby is not dating. _Ever_."

You laugh again, then  make your way to the coffeepot, pouring yourself a cup. "You have a couple  of years to get used to the idea. Hate to break this to you, man, but that's  one beautiful little girl you've got there."

He smiles down at the  baby in agreement. "You've got that right."

Bree beams back, her  mouth still around the teething ring.

"And she's got  her daddy's smile," you add, still grinning.

The baby yawns, eyes  blinking slowly, heavily. "Time for a nap," Joey announces, even  as she raises her hands up to be carried. He obliges, then grins at you over  her head. "And then maybe Daddy can have one, too."

You sip at your coffee  as you watch them. The baby propped up against Joey's shoulder as he softly  rocks and sings her to sleep. It's a scene you've seen dozens of times before.  A Fatone through and through, Joey is a creature of habit, prone to rituals  and traditions. Even now, in the midst of the turmoil your lives have become,  he finds time to make his own.

You grin. The song he  sings, though, is anything but traditional.

"Dude, isn't it  too early in the morning for David Bowie?"

It's his turn to roll  his eyes. "Oh, and like this isn't your fault. I'm pretty sure 'China  Girl' was never meant to be sung as a lullaby but it's better than 'Come On  Feel The Noise'. Why couldn't you have just stuck with 'Goodnight Sweetheart'?" 

You keep grinning, unrepentant.  "Yo, is it my fault the kid's got taste? Between your show tunes and  Lance's country songs, I figured she deserved to hear some real music. Just  be thankful that Kelly pulled rank before JC and Justin got a chance."

"Oh, I am,"  he answers, fervently. "You have no idea."

Bree squeaks indignantly  and he resumes singing. You smile secretly as he purposely muffles certain  words.

It doesn't take long  for the baby to fall asleep, she had a late night, too, after all.

"I'm just gonna  put her down and then I'll make us some breakfast," he says, already  on his way out the kitchen. "Make that brunch."

"'Kay." Usually  you're set with coffee and whatever leftovers are in the fridge, but you're  never one to say no when people want to cook for you. You did enough of it  growing up that you do as little of it now as possible. Plus, the compulsion  to feed people is another Fatone trait. You don't screw around with genetics,  boy.

When he comes back he  spends a few minutes perusing your refrigerator and cupboards and tsk-tsking  at their meager contents.

"How do you live,  man?"

It's a rhetorical, oft-repeated  question, so you don't deign to answer.

You're not exactly sure  how Joey managed to conjure up a fairly decent spread. You eye the spinach  omelet a little warily - not only are you morally opposed to eating anything  green, you don't remember buying eggs in the recent past. You nibble on piece  of toast until Joey eats a couple of bites and doesn't keel over.

He grins when you finally  start eating. He knows you too well.

It occurs to you belatedly  that you've actually been acting normal. Well, normal for you. No curious  flutters in your stomach. No strange rhythms in your heart. No insane urge  to jump Joey's bod. This makes you inordinately happy. Yes! you think. Obviously,  you've managed to overcome that strange affliction by the sheer force of your  will. You are a rock, a tower, a bastion of masculinity. You rule, man.

You feel so pleased  with yourself that you break out the popsicles. Ice cream. It's all you need  to live.

Well, you decide a few  minutes later, as you surreptitiously watch him eat it, _that_ was  a mistake.

 

The day has a way of  disappearing when you're not on the clock. Before you know it it's late afternoon  and the three of you are chilling out, literally, on your back porch.

Bree's wearing way too  many clothes, in your opinion, since she's used to New York weather and it's  still fairly warm, but she's not complaining about it too much. She refused  to wear shoes, though.

She's obviously feeling  better. She has not only managed to harass Busta into fleeing into the bushes,  but she's been gleefully whapping at the Justin bobblehead from the set that  management had sent over for the last twenty or so minutes. You're kind of  impressed, really. Not only is she amazingly persistent, she's showing great  whapping form for a less-than-1 year old. It looks like Joey won't have to  beat those boys after all, Bree's going to be more than a match for any of  them. If that bobblehead had any brains at all, he'd flee into the bushes,  too.

Joey brings you another  mug of hot chocolate and sits beside you. You'd prefer beer, but Joey doesn't  like people drinking around the baby. It's a good thing none of you really  smoke, or he'd be against that, too. It's a pain sometimes, all his rules  about the baby, but you figure he'll learn soon enough he can't protect Bree  from everything. Let him have his way, and his illusions, for now.

He's asked if they could  stay for another night, even though he doesn't need to ask, ever, none of  them do. They're your brothers.

"Chinese okay?"  you ask, and he nods. "I didn't order any sweet and sour anything,"  you add, "just to be safe." Joey brought over a great deal of baby  food, but she's at that age where gets into everything and puts almost everything  she can reach into her mouth.

He groans. "Explain  to me again how it's possible that my daughter, _my_ daughter, is allergic  to tomatoes. I mean, that's gotta be a genetic impossibility."

You laugh. "Dude,  at least she's not lactose intolerant or allergic to chocolate. Now _that_   would be a tragedy."

"Hah," he  snorts. "Tell that to my mother. She considers it a personal insult that  B won't be able to eat 75% of her cooking." His look turns mournful.  "Poor baby, she's going to starve during reunions. And it'd just be my  luck if she grows up to be a vegan or something."

You laugh again. "That'd  be the least of your problems," you tell him.

Bree finally gets tired,  or bored. She waddles over and plops down on your lap like it's there merely  for her convenience, holding her arms up to you.

"Oof," you  comment, even as you obligingly gather her up in your arms. "You're getting  pretty big, kiddo."

"Isn't she?"  Joey agree, ruffling her brown curls. You remember when you all first saw  her, how Joey, all of you, really, had been almost afraid to touch her. She'd  been such a little thing, when he'd taken her with both hands she'd barely  fit. Her lungs had been the only big thing about her. Now she's ordering the  lot of you around like her personal servants and tough enough to show recalcitrant  bobbleheads who was boss.

She starts babbling  at you at approximately 100 syllables per minute, each sound distinct and  emphatic, if indecipherable. When you try to turn to Joey to comment, she  grabs hold of your face, bringing your attention back towards her. Her voice  becomes even more emphatic, until they trail off, the last few syllables rising  in inflection, almost as if she's asking a question. Then she stares at you  expectantly for a few moments, until you give a cautious nod. "Sure,  sweetheart," you say. "Whatever you want."

You get a little worried  when she beams triumphantly then scampers on her hands and knees to babble  excitedly to her father.

"I think I just  promised to buy her a car on her 16th birthday," you tell him.

He laughs as he picks  her up and sets her down on his lap. "That's right. My baby's not going  to grow up spoiled _at all._ Christmas is going to be insane this year."  He looks at you wryly. "And don't think I don't know about that popsicle  you snuck her while I ran out for more diapers."

"That was for her  gums!" you protest. "Same principle as freezing the teething ring!"

"Yeah, sure. And  if she's up all night on this sugar high, you're on gonna be up right along  with her."

"Pfft," you  reply. The sound makes Bree laugh. "She's fine. And she's gonna be fine.  You worry too much."

"I can't help it."  He hands Bree her favorite stuffed dolphin and she settles down a little,  her one-sided conversation now directed at its nose. "It's all a little  overwhelming. She can't even walk yet and already she's running circles around  me."

"Pfft," you  say again, more emphatically this time. "Don't sweat it, man. You're  doing a great job."

"I'm not so sure  about that," he says. "God forbid an actual crisis comes up and  I didn't have you guys to help me."

"Hey, are you not  getting the significance of my repeated use of the word 'pfft'? Don't make  me get all graphic on you."

"Pfft's not a word,"  he points out.

"Shows what you  know," you answer, rolling you eyes at him. "No wonder you don't  see what a great dad you are."

"But-"

"But nothing,"  you cut in. He sounds too serious for your liking. "You love this kid?"

He doesn't even think  about it. "More than I thought humanly possible."

You punch him in the  arm. "Then take it from someone who knows, man. That's all she needs."

He throws you a grateful  look. "Thanks, man. I mean it, though. I couldn't do this without you."  He grins, suddenly, ruefully. "Remember when Kelly told me she was pregnant?" 

You grin back. "Kinda  hard to forget that night, dude." It had been near the end of the Toronto  leg of the No Strings tour, and he'd banged on your hotel door at 6am, nearly  hysterical.

"I was so freaked,  man," he says. "All I could think about was how badly I messed up.  How I'd ruined everything."

"You kept saying  that," you remember. "All night long. That you'd messed up. You  didn't, man. I told you everything was going to be okay."

"You didn't know  that," he counters.

"Oh, yes I did,"  you respond, poking him in the arm for emphasis. "Shame, shame on you  for ever doubting the word of The Great Kirkpatrick. Shame."

He rolls his eyes at  you. "You fainted and when you woke up you wanted to call your mother."

"I wanted to call  everyone," you correct, ignoring that part about the fainting, which  _so_ never happened. "It's what we do in a crisis."

"Anyway,"  he continues, "we'd broken up again so we hadn't seen each other for  a while. My fault, of course. She's usually very patient and tolerant with  my fuck-ups, but I'd been dealing with some issues and... She was really great  about it. She said it was up to me. That she could do it by herself, that  I didn't have to be part of it if I didn't want to. That it could be her baby,  or it could be ours, but I had to make a decision and stick with it. She said  babies mean commitment, and she knew I had a little problem with that, so…"  He shook his head, ruefully. "I just... I was so freaked, man. Scared  out of my mind. It wasn't that I wanted her to get rid of it, or that I didn't  want it, it was... It was so crazy back then. The group. Management was already  on my case. I was dealing with so many things. It was spectacularly bad timing,  to say the least. I didn't know what to do, honestly." He put his hand  on top of Bree's head, who grinned at him.

"Joe," you  say. "Men thrice your age have freaked out at the thought of being a  father; it's normal. You did okay, man. I had every faith in you."

"I know. That 's  what convinced me," he replies. "But sometimes I think she might  not be here at all if it hadn't been for you. If you hadn't talked me down  and told me I could do this. That we could do this. That everything was going  to be okay. When you think about it, you're really the one who gave her to  me."

He turns back to you,  smiling, and you're overwhelmed by the gift he's just given you.

"Hey," you  tell him, "if anyone should be thanking anybody it should be us. It should  be me. You're sharing your daughter with us. That's such a huge thing, you  have no idea. And the truth is you're so good at it, and she's so adorable,  that the two of you are almost making it non-scary. She smiles at me and I  forget that I could, you know, warp her or something. You're giving us hope,  you know. That maybe we'll have that, too, someday."

"You will,"  he declares.

"Nah, I've raised  enough children, thank you." Smirking, you ruffle his hair the same way  he did Briahna's earlier. "I'll just be Cool Uncle Chris, the one sworn  to undermine all parental authority and initiate your kids into all sorts  of fun and potentially destructive experiences."

"Lance already  beat you in buying her a chemistry set," he informs you, wryly.

"Damn," you  reply, snapping your fingers.

You grin at each other,  until his daughter again demands his attention.

You sit there, watching  them, just grateful to be there. It's a little disconcerting, to be reminded  of that time, to have learned that the possibility had existed, no matter  how slim, that he could have balked. That things could have turned out differently  and this sweet little girl wouldn't have been part of your lives.

You do remember that  morning vividly. You still don't understand why he didn't want to call the  other guys, why he begged you not to tell anyone until he was ready.

He thought they'd be  angry, maybe, thought he'd disappoint his folks, thought management would  blow up at him. The truth was at the time you'd all been running a little  wild, giddy with success, and you'd already gotten a few stern lectures about  your collective and individual escapades. You yourself would probably have  been worse if you hadn't had Dani.

It had been a particularly  bittersweet time for you, the days that followed. Your career shooting up  while your relationship with her came crashing down. Too good be true, you  always thought, and it turns out you were right.

She'd been the perfect  girlfriend -- fun and cool and classy, and you had more in common than you  would have thought possible. She'd been one of the boys, but one that looked  great on your arm when you went to parties and award shows. The truth is you  didn't realize you loved her until she came to you and said she was tired  of playing, that she was ready for a real relationship. There had been that  one blinding moment of stunned amazement and joy before you could say okay.

So it kind of threw  you for a loop when she told you she meant with someone else.

It hits you then, with  a sense of doomed déjà vu. Love. It's _love._ You are  freaking _in love_ with Joey. With Joseph Fatone, Jr.

_Love._

That's, like, _whoa_.

"Chris?"

You blink, and Joey  is looking at you strangely.

"You okay?"

Your smile is meant  to be reassuring, but it's weak and sickly at best. "Yeah," you  say, waving away his concern. "Just distracted."

"You're sure?"  he persists, brows knit. "You look like you want to throw up."

Oh, you do.

You can almost hear  the sudden cashing in of your karma points when Busta streaks out of the bushes  and into the house a split second before your buzzer sounds. The food delivery,  you realize, dimly. Bree immediately shoves the dolphin at her father then  starts crawling after the dog, possibly intent on more torture.

Joey laughs and picks  her up. She struggles for a moment then simply points imperiously in the direction  Busta disappeared to. "No more, sweetie," he says, kissing her nose.  "You're going to make him shed." He hands her to you. "Here,  hold her while I get that."

You're still in shock,  so you don't protest, even though you've already got the money ready on the  coffee table. Bree pats your cheek. Her high piping voice sounds almost like  she's concerned.

"Baby," you  tell her, somberly, "you're not going to believe what Uncle Chris went  and did this time."

 

 

**III.**

Not many people know  this, but you don't fall in love easily. Dragged into it kicking and screaming  would be a more apt description. More importantly, you don't fall in love  _happily._ You'd rather be kidnapped by aliens and have a probe rammed  up your... nostril. And in true Chris Kirkpatrick fashion, you have a less  than... normal... reaction to being in love. Or rather, you have a perfectly  normal reaction. If you were, say, an eleven-year-old boy.

Freaked out is the description  that comes to mind.

Love.

Ick.

You hate your life.

 

Lance knows. You don't  know how, but he does. It's the only explanation for all the smirks, the leers,  the loaded, if somewhat obscure, side comments. Either that or Lance is suddenly,  inexplicably, macking on your Fine Kirkpatrick Ass.

You glare at him suspiciously,  and he, in that weird way of his, looks back at you and smirks knowingly.  "In your dreams, Kirkpatrick," he says.

Okay, Lance has gotten  way past weird and crossed over into creepy.

But if Lance _is_   after your bod...

You can't reject him  outright, of course. That would be way _way_ too cruel. Not even Lance  Bass could recover from something like that. It would be one thing for you  to kill him, but if he kills himself over you, well, imagine the guilt. Imagine  the tears. Imagine Mama Bass coming after you with a knife!

So, no breaking Lance's  heart.

But a distraction may  be in order...

 

The thing about JC is  he's distracted and self-absorbed most of the time, but get him involved in  a project and he turns into the popstar equivalent of Atilla the Hun, complete  with all the leather and fur. Get him worried about a friend? A steam roller  would be less relentless.

You drop hints that  Lance has been distracted lately, and that he's looking all wan and thin and  sad, in dire need of some TLC and cheering up. Then you point the way, step  aside, and let Tornado JC relieve you of the unwelcome attentions of one Lance  Bass.

It's good to be King.

 

You're having a pretty  good dream. There are motorcycles. Clowns. Half-priced jumbo bags of Salsa  Verde Doritos. And this really cute guy licking your nose.

Wha?

You open your eyes and  find yourself nose to nose with...

Dirk.

"Eyaaaaggghhhh!" 

He's faster than you  are and scrambles away, running down the bed and seeking refuge behind a pair  of jean-clad legs.

Lance. Of course. Why  did you give him the access codes to your house again?

"So," he says,  without preamble, "remember when you made us all watch 'Stand By Me'  because JC refused to believe Jerry O'Connel used to be fat?"

You can't deny it. You  nod.

"Remember that  part about the dog? The one in the junkyard?"

You swallow nervously,  then nod again.

"Don't worry, though,"  he says, almost pleasantly. "The body part I'll name? It won't be anything  the fans can see. And I'm sure they'll like the fact that your voice will  be even higher than it is now."

He picks Dirk up, puts  the quite-possibly rabid ferret on his shoulder, then walks out.

Busta follows on his  heels, the traitor.

You wonder if Sexual  Chocolate covers protection from people _within_ the group.

Maybe you'll just move.

 

Losing the skirmish  to Lance makes you cranky. And resentful. And kind of itchy.

Damn Joey and his incessant  cheer, you think. Damn that beautiful, beautiful smile. Damn him and his child  parading in front of you, twin visions of loveliness, like a damn Hallmark  card. There ought to be a law.

You spend the next week  being pissy at everything and everyone. Not even the distraction of twinkling  Christmas lights and of keeping an eye out for Lance's next attack can shake  you out of this self-imposed grudge fest. This is his fault anyway, for taking  the fun out of being miserable.

And, of course, sweet biddable Joey is baffled by all this, confused by your  extended bad temper. "Dude, what? Are you mad at me? Did I do something?"

You try to stomp off  without answering but Lance is glaring at you, the message clear in his eyes.  Fuck with Joey and you will die. Horribly, agonizingly, parts of you will  never be found.

You sigh. Deep. Beleaguered.  "Of course not, Joe."

"Then what's up,  man?" he asks, sincerely concerned.

"Nothing,"  you mumble, crossing arms over your chest defensively. "I'm a crotchety  old man. This is what crotchety old men do. "

Frustrated, he turns  to Lance. "You, you know what's going on, don't you? You always know."

Lance doesn't bother  to deny it.

"Well?" Joey  waits expectantly.

You glare at Lance.  He wouldn't, you think. He couldn't. There's, like, an unwritten code, or  something.

He meets you glare for  glare and you get a sinking feeling in your stomach. You're dead, so dead.

"He's in love with  you," Lance tells Joey, deadpan.

But not as dead as Lance  is going to be, you vow to yourself.

You cringe internally,  but continue to glare at Lance. You have the right to remain silent. And bear  arms. Firearms would be so useful right now.

Joey blinks. "What?"

"Absolutely mad  for you," Lance continues, still flatly. "Pining and withering away  to a shell of a man, living for your every smile, longing for your touch." 

"What?" Joey  says again, turning back to you. "Dude, the hell?"

"That's right,"  you snap. "I lie awake, I drive myself crazy, drive myself crazy thinking  of you."

Joey stares at both  of you in turn, his expression clearly showing that he thinks you're both  out of your minds. Then he sighs and shrugs. "Fine," he says, only  a hint of annoyance in his voice, but you both know he's mad now. "Be  like that, both of you. You know, you could have just told me to fuck off  and mind my own business. Sue me for being worried about a friend."

He stalks off, and sheer  relief makes you sag.

Lance is the devil.  You always suspected this, but now you know for certain. Because when you  turn back to pound his sorry Southern ass to the ground, he's already there,  laughing. _Laughing_.

No judge would convict  you. They wouldn't find enough of him, to start with.

"Dude," he  says, waving one hand to ward you off, gasping for breath. "Dude, that  was just..." More chuckles. "That was priceless. Nice save, man."

"I hate you."  You can't say it too many times. You should be canonized, you think, for not  actually kicking him.

You settle for sitting  on him until JC comes to his rescue.

You'll call this one  a draw.

 

You thought you'd be  safe. There would be guests, politicians, celebrities, press people, _children_ ,  for God's sake. You thought you at least had enough self-discipline to behave  yourself when there were children around.

Another piece of your  self-image shot to hell.

You're hiding from everyone  else in a utility closet in the sitting room they gave the group. It's not  your most brilliant idea... Okay, it's a phenomenally stupid idea. The latest  in a day filled with them. Which is why you're hiding in the first place.

You didn't mean to,  you swear you didn't. You don't remember what led you to do it. You don't  even remember doing it. You just remember it happening.

You cringe at the memory.  It's official. You've totally lost it.

You're only grateful  the event's over and no one else actually saw you. God watches over drunks  and idiots, you mom always says. Maybe if you stay there long enough everyone  will forget about you and you can leave the country without incident.

You can hear their voices  out in a few feet away from your location. This is a good, you think, it means  they don't know you're there. On the other hand, they're talking about _you_.

"You're sure?"  JC asks, his voice ringing with bewilderment. "Maybe it was just some  random guest. God knows they got a bit rowdy out there. Maybe one of the kids  thought it was some sort of game."

"No," Joey  answers, definitely, and you can visualize him shaking his head. "It  was Chris."

"And he did what?"  Lance sounds amused.

"Tried to bean  me with an apple," Joey recounts. "Just now, in the hallway. Then  ran away when I asked him what was going on."

"Chris?" Justin  questions, his voice high with disbelief. "An _apple_? Chris?  _Our_ Chris?"   "Dark hair, pointy ears, kinda crazy?"   You'd be miffed, but you're too busy trying to hold still and not make any  noise.

"He would have  to be," Lance says, "considering."

As soon as you're out of here, you vow, you're changing all the settings on Lance's laptop.  


"But this can't be news to anyone," he adds.

And the speed dials  on his cellphone.

"Lance," Joey  says, "are you sure he's not mad at me? I must have done something  to piss him off. I mean, growling whenever he sees me is one thing. Pelting  me with fruit seems like another ballgame entirely." He laughs, a little  self-mockingly. "I mean, I wasn't even on stage, man."

"But..." JC  sounds totally perplexed. "Joey, you know Chris would never deliberately  hurt _anyone_ , least of all any of us."

You love JC. A lot.

"I know that,"  Joey says. "But--"

"Besides, you throw  food at me all the time," he points out, "and you don't mean anything  by it. Maybe he was just tossing it to you? And, you know, threw it a little  too fast? Got over-zealous? Over-estimated his own strength? He's a little  excitable, you know that."

A really really lot.

"Maybe," Joey  concedes, now sounding doubtful.

"Maybe he thought  _you'd_ be angry and that's why he ran away?"

You want to _marry_   JC.

"There, you see?  This is just a big misunderstanding," JC says, happily, sounding reassured  and certain of his own interpretation of things. "Why don't we go find  Chris now and let him know you're not angry at him?" You hear them moving  away and surmise that he's persuaded them to agree. "Come on, we need  to find him fast. He's been acting kind of fragile, lately. Maybe he's having  some sort of mid-life crisis, or something."

Forget it, the wedding's  off.

"Maybe he's been  experimenting again, trying to come up with the next new cool drink,"  Justin suggets. "I thought he'd learned his lesson that time he mixed  pixie stix, strawberry ice cream and vodka. We should make sure he stays away  from the bar."

You wait for the footsteps  to fade, and then wait a few more moments, just to be safe. Finally, you unclench  your body from its cramped position and open the closet door slowly, poking  your head out gingerly.

"Dude, you said  you weren't going to be a cliché."

You don't die from the  heart-attack Lance almost gave you, and, by some grace of God above, manage  not to fall out the closet.

"Fuck! Lance, stop  doing that! One of these days you're going to kill me, man."

Lance snorts. "It  would serve you right." He tosses you the object he was holding and you  cringe again. It's the apple in question. Bright red, shiny, at least on one  side. The other side is a mushy mess. You blanch at the sight.

"You could have  hurt him, man, what were you thinking?"

"I don't know!"  you say, almost bawling the words out. "I didn't mean to! He was just...  there! And..."

"Was this some  screwed up Kirkpatrick mating ritual? Some sort of warped seduction scene?  Going all caveman on our friend, maybe?" he asks. "Chris, this is  Joey we're talking about. All these passive-aggressive stunts aren't going  to cut it. The straight -- make that _direct_ \-- approach is best."  Smirking, he takes the apple from you, ignoring your screeches of protest.  "I'll give you points for the symbolism, but your delivery was a little  off."

"Shut up,"  you say. "You know it wasn't like that."   He tosses the mangled apple into the trash, then reaches into the complimentary  fruit basket for another one. "See, Chris, _this_ is what you  should have done."

He stalks towards you,  eyes gleaming, a sultry smile on his lips. There's just the slightest sway  to his hips and you'd like to say the whole bit's overdone, but it's _Lance_   so it's not and it's scorchingly hot. He comes up to you, not breaking eye  contact, until he's about a handspan away. Then the smile turns impish, almost  devilish, tempting and teasing as he lifts his hand and proffers the apple.  "Wanna bite?"

Fuck, you think.

"No, no, no, you  did it wrong."

You both turn to the  doorway, where JC and Justin are standing, JC shaking his head.

"Where's Joey?"  you ask, before you can help yourself.

"He had to go,"  Justin answers. "Got a call from Kelly."

JC walks to the fruit  basket and picks out a peach. "You have to take a bite first, _then_   offer him one," said. "Also, peaches work better. Or even strawberries,  really. They're more, um, suggestive. Also, juicier, which provides more openings."  He looks at you speculatively, then turns and walks up to Lance. He takes  a slow, measured bite; his eyes smoldering. Juice runs down to his wrist and  he catches it with his tongue, then licks his lips. The whole thing would  have been obscene, you think, if it had been anyone else but JC. Even Lance  looks flustered, especially when JC kind of plasters the lower half of his  body to his before proffering the peach. JC holds that pose for an entire  half minute and you're making bets with yourself as to whether Lance was going  to end up jumping JC and you'd have to poke your own eyes out when he turns  back to you, beaming. "Like that, see?"

"Very impressive,"  you say. You turn to Justin. "What about you, kid? Got any fruit demonstrations  to add to this impromptu sex ed class?"

Justin turns red. "Grapes,"  he answers.

Lance and JC look unimpressed.  "The peeling a grape thing?" Lance asks. "Come on, J, surely  you can do better than that."

Justin looks insulted,  but his color remains high. "It's not the peeling a grape thing, okay?  Britney did this... It's..." He fades off, unable to continue.

You all wait patiently,  but nothing else is forthcoming. He just stands there, his face burning.

Hmmm. You need to call  Brit about this, you think. Like, _right now._ That must've been some  date.

 

Joey forgives you, because  he's that way and he can't hold on to a grudge to save his life. Plus, one  of the good things about living together in such close quarters for so long  is he _already_ knows you're crazy, and chalks everything up to too much  adrenaline and sugar.   You figure sending him a giant fruit basket didn't hurt, either.

 

 

 

 

**IV.**

After that fiasco with  the apple you decide that avoidance is the better part of valor, and for once  the Universe is kind and cooperates.

You've only had a handful  of shoots and performances scheduled, and the holidays give you a built-in  excuse of being too 'busy' to spend much time with your groupmates. It helps  that everyone's just as busy as distracted as you pretend to be. Joey is particularly  nervous about his daughter's first Christmas, or so you deduce when he calls  you up to ask your opinion on the merry-go-round he's thinking about getting  her.

"What do you think,  unicorns or just plain horses? Black or white? Silver bridles or gold?"

You tell him it all  depends on whether he's planning to get her a gold or a platinum tiara.

 

Despite the obviously  dangerously unstable condition of your sanity, you're looking forward to your  annual Christmas party. The one just the five you have, before you all volt  out and go to your respective families for the holidays. The low-key non-industry  quiet get-together where you all exchange handpicked gifts and talk about  the old days (the real stories, not the ones you spout during interviews)  and your plans for the coming year.

In retrospect, though,  maybe you should have cased out JC's house before the actual day of the party.  Really, JC has a way too heavy, some would even say dangerous, hand with the  mistletoe.

 

These men are your brothers so they're used to you, they accept all your idiosyncrasies. When you get  weepy and co-dependent Justin just rolls his eyes in a 'Not again!' expression  and pokes the middle of your forehead to make you laugh. JC holds your hand  and grins at you. Lance slings an arm around both of you, comfortable with  physical displays of affection only with he's with you guys. Then Joey comes  up and throws his arms around all of you.

It's all very counter-productive,  really. In the middle of that massive five-way hug, you're safe and happy  and you end up blubbering on their collective shoulders. It's a good thing  you're all modern men, secure in your masculinity, or your street rep would  be so shattered by the display. Especially when JC passes you the ballerina  tissue holder.

 

In the wee hours of  the morning Joey drives you home. Justin left earlier to meet Britney and  Lance volunteered to help JC tidy up.

"Been hell of a  year, hasn't it?" he says, after you've been traveling a while.

"Crazy year,"  you agree. And it has. No one could have predicted everything that had happened,  from the successes to the tragedies. "You think next year's going to  be just as crazy?'

"Worse," he  grins. "We're going to be even bigger next year."

You shake your head  mock-mournfully. "Where did I go wrong with you guys? Where did all this  raging ambition come from?"

"Look who's talking,"  he laughs. "Or wasn't that you, who told us that someday we were going  to be bigger than U2, back when we were hungry and miserable in Europe?"

You stick your tongue  out at him. "The point is, I thought we were gonna take it easy next  year. Smaller venues, less complicated sets, shorter runs. Then, you, know,  take an actual break." You roll your eyes. "I'm giving you all dictionaries,  yo 'cause, none of you seem to grasp the concept. Break means sleeping. Vegging  out in front of the TV in your underwear. Sitting around in lounge chairs  on a white sand beach while gorgeous bikini-clad women cater to your every  whim. It means resting on your laurels for a while, not this systemic and  organized conquering of new territories y'all got scheduled."

He grins. "You  believe that about Lance?" he asks. "Space, man. He's actually gonna  go for it."

"I know,"  you say. "Imagine our little Lansten in a rocketship. Me, I get woozy  just thinking about getting on a plane."

"J and C're gonna  do solo albums, and-"

"'Groundbreaking'  solo albums," you correct with a laugh, repeating the word Justin kept  using. "You're going to be blowing them away on Broadway."

"And you're going  to be wowing the fashion industry," he finishes.

"Eh," you  say, with a dismissive wave. "That's more Dani's baby than mine. I'm  just gonna be sitting at a desk, enjoying the air conditioning and looking  pretty. Maybe send out a few anonymous X-rated emails."

"It's your concept,"  he points out. "Your designs. Bree loves the clothes you gave her, by  the way. Especially the dark green one with the silver studs."

"She can wear it  when she goes unicorn riding," you tease.

He grimaces. "You  know Kelly nixed that idea. She said less with the presents, more with the  presence."

"Smart woman,"  you reply. "She's been good for you. Settled you down some."

He gives an odd half-smile,  barely visible in the dim interior of the car. "Yeah." There's also  a strange note in his voice, but you're distracted by the sudden twinge in  your heart at the thought of the three of them together.

"Bet she's ecstatic  y'all are gonna get to spend a lot more time together," you add, quietly.

"I guess,"  he says. "All this shuffling back and forth's kinda hard on all of us.  B's doing way too much travelling for her age."

"I'm gonna miss  the little rugrat," you say, your voice sounding more wistful than you'd  like.

"She'll miss you,  too."

It's a nice thought,  you think, but you doubt it.

Suddenly, a wave of  loneliness rushes through you, the weight an actual pressure in your chest.  And there's no way to escape it, no place to hide. You're trapped, you and  your stupid greedy impossible undeniable unteachable heart, in the incongruously  spacious interior of Joey's SUV. Talk about the perfect setting for a nervous  breakdown.

"So, you're going  to be okay, right?"

It takes all of your  strength to turn back to him and sound halfway normal.

"What?"

"You've been acting  a little strange lately." He grins. "Make that stranger than usual."

"I'm okay,"  you say, even though you're not, nothing could be further than the truth.  "One of the cool things about being on tour is I have an entire crew to harass and you guys don't have to bear the full brunt of the somewhat-misunderstood  Kirkpatrick charm."

"So we're just dealing with everyday ordinary Chris craziness?" he prods.

"Now fortified with spiked eggnog and industrial strength candy canes," you nod.

"You know you can tell me if something's going on, right?" he tells you, seriously. "You  know I got your back, whatever it is?"

"Dude," you say, just a little over-brightly. "I'm supposed to be the maudlin one,  remember? You're messing with my holiday buzz here."

He looks a little doubtful,  but lets it go and doesn't say anything else until you reach your house.

"You're really going to be okay, right?" he asks again, as he lets you off in your driveway. 

You roll your eyes at  him. "Dude, get out of here, your family's waiting. I'll talk to you  soon, okay?"

"Okay." He  leans over and hugs you. "Have a good Christmas, man."

"You, too." 

He waits till you have  the front door open before waving goodbye and driving off.

They always wish you  well when they leave you, you think. Story of your life.

 

 

**V.**

The familiar holiday  chaos of your mother's house works its magic and you come home feeling like  a new man, ready to face the new year. You've actually gone a couple of weeks  without thinking about it, and it doesn't seem such a big deal anymore. After  all, it's not the first time you'd had to do without something you wanted.  It's not the first time you've wanted someone you couldn't have. You'll get  over it. You'll live.

It doesn't hit you until  the AMAs, when there's only you and Justin and JC, just how difficult that's  going to be.

 

Lance corners you after  the People's Choice Awards. You haven't seen him since the Christmas party  so you've got some catching up to do. He tells you about schmoozing at Sundance,  about a few more projects he's been considering taking up. "It's going  to take up a lot of my time," he says, "especially if I actually  hear back from NASA. And, you know, we're going back on tour soon. So I figured  I'd simplify my life and get this out of the way already."

You look at him suspiciously.  "Get what out of the way?"

"You haven't told  him."

You sigh. "Lance..."

"Look, you didn't  actually think I was going to stay out of it?"

"Stay out of what?"  you ask. "There's nothing to stay out of!"

"Look, this has  been going on for months now. You really think he doesn't think something's  going on? He's worried about you, man."

"You've been talking  about me?"

He rolls his eyes, impatiently.  "Dude, this is getting so old. Just tell him and get it the fuck over  with already."

You look at him like  he's insane. "Lance, I'm not going to tell him. _Ever_."

"Why not?"  he demands. "Joey's cool and he's your friend. He's not going to freak  out."

"No!"

"Why not?"  he asks, again. "You had the balls to ask Dani out, you're telling me  our Joey intimidates you?"

"Joey's straight,"  you remind him.

He snorts. "He's  been with guys. You know that."

"It was just a  phase," you argue. "Experimenting. Seeing how the other half lived."

"Try again,"  he says, flatly.

"I don't want to  mess things up."

"Mess what up?  The group? Dude, that's not even an issue. Half the free world think we're  all sleeping together as it is. Hell, it could only widen our fanbase, if  you ask me. Some controversy might do us good."

You blink at that.

"Kelly," you  say next. "He's got Kelly and Bree."

"Oh, please not  the Kelly and Bree card," he replies, sardonically. "Look, Chris,  you're a very good liar, but we both know I'm better. So just tell me the  truth already. Why won't you tell him?"

You give up. "I  tell him for what? So he can worry about me worse than he already is and feel bad that he's the one causing it?"

"You don't know  that," Lance argues. "He cares about you, too. He'd want to-"

"To what?"  you interrupt. "To try? I don't want him to try. I want him to be with someone he can really love and be as happy as he deserves to be." Whoa,  you almost sounded sincere there.

"Then why can't  it be you?" he challenges. "Why won't _you_ try? Why-"

"I don't want it  to be me," you tell him.

"Why not?"

You sigh. "Lance,"  you say, "if I ever fucked you over, broke your heart, what would you  do?"

"Have you killed,"  he answers, without even having to think about it.

"Exactly," you agree. "And JC would just stop speaking to me, ever; completely shut me out. Justin would be bitchy and trash-talk me at every opportunity and  to anyone who would listen. Heck, he'd probably co-write a song with Eminem  in which something very very gruesome happens to me." You look at him,  finally meeting his eyes. "Lance, " you continue, softly, "what  would Joey do?"

Lance winces.

"That's right,"  you say. "He wouldn't do anything. He'd forgive me, and we'd still be  friends, and he'd show me Bree's baby pictures and invite me to every stupid-ass  occasion at the Fatone ancestral home but he would be hurt and he would not  understand and he'd just be..." You falter, gesturing helplessly. "Lance,  I can't, don't you see? I _can't._ "

He just stares at you  for a long time, then slumps down beside you in defeat. "Dammit,"  he says. "Why couldn't you just have fallen in love with Justin?"

You surprise yourself  by being able to laugh.

 

  **VI.**  

Lance leaves you alone after that.

In some ways, that makes  it even worse, makes it an even heavier weight.

So you call him from  the FuMan offices after you see footage of him in New Port Beach.

"That's a pretty  big torch you're carrying there, bud," you tease him.

"Look who's talking,"  he replies.

 

Later, during the AOL  chat, someone asks you if you believe in true love.

You tell them no.

 

 

**VII.**

It takes a while but  your resentment makes the rounds and comes full circle back to where it rightly  belongs: you. This, of course, after unsuccessfully trying to blame someone  else. And you've tried, boy have you tried.

You've tried blaming  Joey, of course. You take back all the non-blaming you did in the beginning  and tack on a few more charges to make up for it. This is all his fault, you  think, glaring at his head while he charmed people at the Justin's birthday  party. He's beautiful and sweet and adorable _on purpose,_ just to  fuck with your head.

You've tried blaming  Lance. You almost have yourself convinced of his guilt until he runs interference  between you and Joey during the Superbowl Maxim party. He looks so earnest  and concerned that you forget about him being an Evil Overlord and remember  the sweet dorky kid, the one who always used to save you some dinner, for  when you got home from work.

You try to blame JC,  Justin, Johnny, Melinda, the Backstreet Boys (individually and collectively);  hell, you even tried to blame your mother. Not out loud though. You're not  _that_ stupid.

The fact remains, however,  that this is really all your fault. Because it turns out everybody was right.  You really are an idiot.

All you life you've  wanted things and had always known how to get them. You always had a plan  of action, a clear map to achieving your goals. Some of those goals were great  distant things, things you knew were years and years of pain and hard work  away, but you could see them happening, you could see yourself getting them.

Take care of your family.  Go to college . Get rich.

Start a singing group and make it the biggest thing in the world.

But Joey… You don't  how to deal with wanting Joey.

You've been spoiled,  you think. Deprivation was nothing to you as a child, as a teen. Fame and  fortune had made you soft. And age, you add, mentally. Leave us not forget  age.

The thing is, you know  about things like Joey. As a child, there'd been times when you'd been in  houses with pretty sparkly things. Your mom, your mom had never said the words out loud, but they'd always been there. Don't touch. Don't touch. You weren't  careless, but you were hyper and you forgot sometimes.

And beautiful things,  the most expensive, most precious ones, the ones that were kept high on the  mantle, lovingly dusted and polished everyday, they always seemed to be the most breakable.

You could break Joey without even trying. Because Joey is loved and sheltered and open and beautiful

You'd rather die. And  you most probably would, you think, wryly. Die. Bitter and alone and horny.  And you'd deserve it, too.

You do your best to  cope, pouring your attention on FuMan and promoting the new tour, try to get  back into the rhythm of Orlando's nightlife.

It's all just killing  time.

 

  **VIII.**

By the time you go back  into the studio to prepare for the new tour, you're just sad. Sadder. You've  gone past the noisy kind of sad, the moaning and groaning, the ah! sheer melodrama  of your life! kind of sad. You're done sighing loudly at the imaginary cobwebs  at your ceiling, done with the railing at the fates complete with dramatic  shaking of fist upwards. You're even done with the staring at Joey intently  when he's too busy to notice, hoping you'll get the reverse clap of thunder  or whack on the head that will make everything all right again.

You're the accepting  and at peace kind of sad, which is actually so much worse. You're tired of  feeling the way you do, fighting what you now believe is going to be the permanent  state of things. Your love, damn your heart to hell, is as constant as it  is bittersweet. You're a little surprised at yourself, that you are capable  of an emotion so complex, even noble. Regret isn't the right word for what  you feel, although you think it's close enough. On paper, these things, this  decision, feels like the safe, sensible, logical approach. On paper this looks  right.

Now if only there wasn't  this lump in your chest that hurts every time you breathe. And if only the  songs didn't taste like ashes whenever you try to sing them.

 

You've asked for a few  days off, claiming you weren't feeling well. It was actually a preemptive  strike; you knew that Wade was going to kick your ass the next time you missed  a cue.

You've taken to sitting  alone on your back porch. Usually Busta sits with you, but lately even he  doesn't want to be around you anymore. You're just too depressing. He doesn't  understand why he can't cheer you up the way he always used to do.

You'll make it up to  him later, you think. Right now you're just too tired.

The hand on your shoulder  is warm, despite the cold of the wind. You look up, startled, and he's there. 

You're not ready. For  a moment you flail inside in panic. Joey is the last person you want to see.  Well, okay, not really, but you're alone and Joey is really pushing it. It's  one thing to yearn from afar, but this in-your-face temptation is another  thing entirely.

Okay, so you're not  quite done being bitter, after all.

"Hey," he  says, softly. "Your car was in the driveway, but you weren't answering  the door."

You manage a small grin,  a slight shrug. "Got lost in my thoughts, I guess."

"Then why aren't  you screaming?" he teases. "Your mind is a jungle, my friend. I  can only imagine what it'd be like to actually see it from the inside."

You laugh. It's soft  and natural, and you thought only you could hear the hollowness, but his hand  tightens on your shoulder and he sits down beside you so he can look into  your eyes. You can't look back. You turn away.

"Chris," he  says, softly, "man, what is it? What's wrong? And don't tell me it's  nothing. It's getting even worse."

You try. You're a master  at this, at misdirection, at pretending. "Whatcha talking about, Willis?"  you return, complete with Gary Coleman impersonation, scrunching up your face. 

"Dude," he  says. "Don't do that. You know I can always tell."

He can. He knows faces,  he knows people. It's this ability that makes him such a great performer.  He knows what people need, knows what they want. But more than that is the  inherent kindness and understanding.

"What were you  really thinking, just now?"   You wish you could tell him. You miss the time you could tell Joey all your  problems.

But you can't, so you  just shrug and go back to staring at your lawn.

"Chris," Joey  says, his voice low and intense, "man, you've got to stop."

Okay, you think, distantly.  Just stop. Sounds good.

"Stop it."  Joey says, and he's starting to sound mad. And Joey never sounds mad. Hardly  ever.

"Stop what?"  you ask, because you're not doing anything. "I'm not doing anything,"  you say, just in case Joey missed that.

"Behaving."

You frown, confused.  "Behaving? Behaving like what?"

"Just behaving."  He runs fingers through his shock of hair, shorter than you're used to and  back to its original color. "God, you're scaring the shit out of me.  Don't do this, man. Don't."

You blink. "Joey,  you are so not making any sense. I'm not doing anything."

"That's just it!"

It's too much, you think.  Just… too much. "Oh, fuck off and leave me alone," you snap.  "Just… leave me the hell alone, okay? Go away." You are, after  all, wallowing, and he is here uninvited, hindering your great big wallow.  Talk about rude. There, you've found a reason not to love him. Joey is rude.  Seriously, you are a grown man and grown men should be allowed to feel sorry  for themselves in peace. You bring your knees up and hide your face between  them. You want the world to disappear. You want Joey to leave so you can drink  all the liquor in your cabinets and pass out on your living room floor. What  fun.

"Chris."

"Go away."

"Chris," Joey  says again, his voice still low but softer. You feel his hand on your neck  and you freeze. You refuse to look at him. "Chris, please," he says.  "Come back."

"I said, _go  away_."

"Come back."  Joey's voice gains strength, conviction. "Come back." His hand begins  moving, making rubbing kneading soothing motions on your neck. You remember doing that to all of them at one time or another, when the tension or the  exhaustion or the pain got too much, too raw, that you knew the only way to  make it better was to let them cry in your arms.

Fuck, you think. You  can feel yourself breaking already.

"Joey," you  say, carefully, deliberately. "If you go away right now, I promise I'll  go back to the studio bright and early tomorrow morning. I'll be there at  4am if that's what you want, bright and chipper and ready to work. Just…  Just go away for now."

Joey's hand hesitates  a moment before continuing with its movements. "That's... That's not  what I want," he says.

You grit your teeth.  Joey can ask you for anything and you would bust your butt trying to give  it to him. You both know this. But now is not the time to test you.

"You said 'come  back,'" you say, "and I said okay. God, Joey, what do you want from  me?"

"Not to the studio,"  Joey answers, slowly. "Come back to _us_. To… to _me_."

You freeze, then lift  your head to look at him. "What?" you whisper, barely a breath.

A small self-deprecating  shrug. "I... I miss you. I don't know what's been going on, man, but  I miss you and I want you to come back."

There's a hitch in your  chest that you don't quite understand. For one second there you thought…  You misunderstood, of course you misunderstood. And really, the relief is  overwhelming. You're dizzy with it. You choke on it.

"Tomorrow,"  you say again, and you press your face back to your knees. You close your  eyes and will him away. Far far away.

"Chris, did you  ever...?" His voice falters, fades away. "God, man." That last  word sounds strangled, helpless. You look at him, finally, really look at  him, and you notice, for the first time, that he looks even worse than he  did that night in Toronto, not so long ago. He's drawn, tired, and there's  not a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. This is the thing that brings you back. 

You can see it in his  eyes, hear it in his voice. He needs you. Needs you to listen. Needs your  help.

And you'd been too miserable  and self-occupied to notice.

"Joey? Joey, what's  wrong?"

"Did you ever...  Did you ever find out something about yourself and... Just wanted it to go  away? Not because it was bad, necessarily, or because you were ashamed, but  because… because things would just be... easier, I guess, less complicated,  if it wasn't there?"

You wince. "Yeah."  

"So I learned this… thing… about me. A while back…"  He stops, as if unsure how to continue. "Remember when I found out Kelly  was pregnant?"

You groan. "Joe,  we had this conversation already," you say, going for your knees again.

"See, before Kelly  told me she was pregnant, I found out something like that. Something I didn't  really want to know about me, you know? And I think now... I think now it  happened - the pregnancy -- because I was so damned set on proving something.  Denying something." He laughs, a little hollowly. "Remember that  time management was so pissed at me for all those women? There were men, too,  you know that. Everyone just thought I was just running wild, but the truth  was I was having some major stupid-ass issues. It all seems so stupid now,  but at the time… At the time they seemed huge. And then… one day  - you were still with Dani then - you got sort of fed up and gave me this  blistering lecture on how I was going to lose Kelly if I kept screwing around.  So I thought - hell, maybe the answer wasn't a whole lot of women. Maybe I  just needed one who I really cared about. One I could really trust and let  myself love. So..." He takes a deep breath. "I tried. Me and Kelly,  we tried."

"Kelly's a great  girl," you say, quite honestly. "I'm glad you two worked it out."

"See," he  says, "that's the thing. We didn't, not really. We tried, but it wasn't  working. So we broke up. For good. Only, she got pregnant. It was my fault,  I guess. I was out to prove something. I wasn't careful enough."

"Joey, these things  happen, no matter how careful you are. Ask anyone. Remember Jurassic Park?"

"Chris," he  says, patiently, "I'm trying to tell you something important here."

"Oh, sorry,"  you say, chastened.

"She told me she  was pregnant and suddenly this thing I was trying so hard to make go away  wasn't an option anymore. Just when I finally got my head out of my ass and  was ready to deal with it. Go for it. I knew I'd messed up then. That I ruined  everything." He looks at you soberly. "You never asked," he  continues, quietly. "Why I was so freaked out. You never asked why I  went to you first. Before my father. Before my family. Before Lance, even."

You'd always wondered  about that. "Why did you come to me first, Joey?"

"See, this thing  I found out? That I was trying to deny so badly? It was that I had these…  feelings… for someone that maybe I shouldn't have. And the killer was,  it wouldn't go away, no matter what I did. I fucked up. I missed it, missed  my chance. Suddenly, I couldn't have it anymore, even though I wanted it so  badly I could barely breathe. Kel said it was up to me. That she could do  it alone if she had to. You were the one who me I could do it, that I could  be a good father. You told me 'running away isn't what Joe Fatone's boy would  do, not what the Joey I know would do' and I was so ashamed. And I'd never  loved you or hated you more." He smiles at you, crookedly, then looks  away. "So you see, I was being serious before. You did give me Bree.  I have her because I was trying so hard to run away from you. And because  you wouldn't let me run away from her."

You inhale, sharply.  "Joey…."

Joey doesn't look at  you, just continues on in his quiet calm voice. "I decided I should give  it a chance, you know? The whole nuclear family thing. Because I was a dad  now and... I owed her that. Bree, I mean. And Kel, she's been great, really.  I doubt anyone else would have been so patient and understanding, and she's  a great Mom. I think me and Kelly are better now, though. Friends and co-parents,  instead of a couple. We both tried very hard, I can honestly say that. We  tried. But it didn't change the way I feel. I was, and still am, in love with  you." He meets your eyes, finally, and this time he doesn't look away.  "I'm not really looking for anything here. I'm okay with how things are.  And I'd kick myself everyday for the rest of eternity if I messed what we  have up. It's just… I figured it was time you knew. I'm not sure what's  going on with you, man, but I thought you should know. That if you do anything  stupid, if anything happens to you, it'd hurt me. A lot. And for a very very  long time."

"Joe…"

"I need you,"  Joey said, very quietly, but firmly. "You keep saying I can, but I really  don't want to have to do this without you."

You're speechless. Struck  dumb. Stop the presses because you, Christopher Allan Kirkpatrick, have been  rendered mute. You can only stare at him, mouth agape, wondering what you  ever did to deserve this.

Joey nods. "Okay.  That's... That's all I really came here to say." He gives you a lopsided  grin then stands up. "See you tomorrow, okay, man?"

You can't do anything  but nod.

"And hey,"  he adds, before turning to leave, "whatever this thing is? Whatever it  is that's got you so messed up right now? It's going to be okay, man." 

He doesn't see the grin  that almost splits your face into two.

Of course it is.

Everything's going to  be _great._

 

**IX.**

It's amazing, the capacity  of the human heart to recover. From one heartbeat to the next, you'd completely  gotten over your bout of despondency and are now in full plotting mode.

To say that you were  touched is the granddaddy of all understatements. There was a crazy moment  there where you had this urge to just grab Joey and scream "You had me  at hello!" a la Renee Zellwegger in 'Jerry McGuire.' But that would have  been both inappropriate and prosaic. No, Joey deserves better. He deserves  something deep and meaningful and _original_ , dammit, that hopefully  did not end with 'so can I jump you now?'

He deserves a confession  and declaration as sweet and earth-shattering as the one he just gave you.  And you can do it. Four sisters, man, you've read your share of romance books  if for no other reason than they were in plentiful supply.

The nearly naked men  on the covers had nothing to do with it.

You try to compose your  thoughts but your much-abused heart and deprived hormones refuse to cooperate.  You don't know how long you sit there, but only two words repeat themselves  over and over in your brain.

Joey.

Now.

Joey.

Now.

Joey.

_Now_!

This would have been  a lot simpler, you think, if Joey hadn't been such a fucker. The dude's been  holding out on you! Not only the fact that he'd been beautiful all these years,  not only the fact that he'd loved you all this time, but that he had... words...  like that inside him. Sweet, and simple, and… so fucking beautiful they  made you go all soft and weak and… almost giddy.

The man is a fucking  _poet_.

But that's okay. Surely  you can come up with something appropriate. You went to college, after all.  You'd studied all the great poets. You can _do_ this.

You grab your keys and  run out the door.

You always did do your  best work under pressure. 

 

Your mood shifts again  as soon as you arrive at Joey's house, all your determination and carefully  chosen words abandoning you the moment Joey opens the door, looking rumpled  and slightly grumpy. And utterly adorable.

"If you wake up  B, I'll kill you," he growls. Not quite the lovey-dovey greeting you'd  envisioned.

Belatedly, you realize  that it's past midnight, and pushing on his doorbell like a demented woodpecker  may not have been a good idea.

"Sorry."

He lets you in and leads  the way into the kitchen, where he hands you a beer and gets one for himself.  You raise your eyebrow at that but he merely shrugs. "I figure we're  going to need it," he says, sitting down on a stool.

"Joe…"

"I'm not going to apologize for what I said," he tells you, quietly, firmly, "but  I am sorry if I freaked you out."

You shake your head.  "No, Joey-"

"And really, you  don't have to worry about this," he continues, ignoring you. "This  doesn't have to be awkward. I think I've gotten pretty good at the pretending  this isn't killing me thing, and you can pretend this never happened and go  back to what you were doing before I opened my big dumb mouth. Except for  the impersonating a zombie thing. You can't go back to that."

"Joe-"  

"And really, it's okay, I-"

"Yo, can I say  something here?" you interrupt.

"I guess," he nods. "Go ahead."  

But you've lost your train of thought and can't seem to find it again, flustered  by the regard of those beautiful brown eyes. You open your mouth but nothing  comes out. You close it, pace a little, trying to make sense of the words  and feelings churning in your stomach. You try again. Still nothing comes  out.

"You know,"  he comments, a little self-mockingly,"you're usually only quiet when  it's bad news. Really, it's okay-"

"Fuck it,"  you say, putting down your beer on the table, and grabbing his the collar  to haul him up to your open-mouthed kiss. It's awkward at best, because Joey's  taller than you are and there's no way your knees can stay bent in that unnatural  position for an extended period of time. When your knees start shaking and  you try to move away he grabs you and hauls you back down to the stool, installing  you firmly in his lap, kissing you like you've never been kissed before.

When you both finally  run out of breath, he takes your face in shaking hands and moves your head  just far enough away so he can look at you. "That's it?" he asks,  and you can see the amusement in his eyes. "That's the reason for the  big angst-fest? You love me, too?"

You roll your eyes at  him. "Moron," you say, then go back to kissing him.

Words are overrated anyway.

 

  **X.**

"Me and Joey are  in love and getting married," you announce to all and sundry when you  arrive at the studio the next day. Justin chokes on his bagel and JC blinks.

"Wha-?"

You nod eagerly. "Justin,  you get to be ring bearer," you tell him, pinching his cheeks. "Lance  is best man and JC is the maid of honor. Though I suppose you should be the  maid of honor, since you're the bride's best friend? Hmmm." You knit  your brow thoughtfully. "Hey, Joe, prep me on this Italian Roman Catholic  wedding thing again."

"Fuck," Justin  says. "Don't kid around like that, man. You scared the hell out of me."

"But JC would totally lose the ring and he's a little too old to escort the flower girl," you  muse. "Plus, JC looks good in pink lace. Hey, Joe, do I have to wear white?"

"Is this really  necessary?" Lance asks, his voice bored, but his eyes sparkling.

You gasp in outrage.  "Of course! Now that I've hooked my man I gotta get him corralled. I've  been waiting a long time, you know. I don't have a lot of childbearing years left." You grin at him. "Guess who the Best Man gets to escort to  the wedding?"

You smirk as he flushes,  ever so slightly.

Sometime during the  night you had realized that Lance had known, had to have known, about Joey's  feelings all this time. You don't have the full story on that yet, but you'll  find out. Besides, you're not mad at him, you're way too happy to be so petty  and vindictive.

And revenge, as they  say, is a dish best served cold. Possibly with a little matchmaking on the  side.

"You see?"  Justin says to JC. "And you were worried. I told you he was just storing  up the insanity."

Joey comes in, holding  a struggling Briahna. Bree squeals when she sees you, reaching out with both  arms.  Joey hands her to you, giving you a quick kiss on the mouth before going  back out to the car for the rest of her things. 

Justin's jaw drops and JC blinks again.

"What do you think,  baby?" you ask, kissing her on the nose. "Pink lace?"

She looks at you directly,  then says, very distinctly: "Pfft."

Kids today… 

 

The  End 

copyright [JCSA](mailto:seuneaeryk@hotmail.com) 2003


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